


Trust and a lack thereof

by TheMagicMeep



Series: Trust and a lack thereof [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, F/M, Love Confessions, Trust Issues, War, genderbent character, mentions of historical events
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-22
Updated: 2014-04-19
Packaged: 2017-12-21 01:14:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/894067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMagicMeep/pseuds/TheMagicMeep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frances past comes back to haunt him and Scotland is honest</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. London, 1904

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The signing of the Entente Cordiale has interesting consequences.

London, 1904

France does not like London, it is after all the capitol, the very beating heart of his best enemy England, who would no doubt have his head on a stake if he caught wind of just why the French nation had returned to this grey and sprawling city.

It is a reason that has been plaguing him since the signing of the entente cordiale and one that weighs heavily on his heart. He is the country of love and he knows this feeling that has sneaked into his heart and made its home there well.

It had been easy enough to ignore when he hadn’t been able to actually see her. But the signing of the treaty had been the first time in years that they had met face to face and he had been forcibly reminded of how he felt and the hold she seemed to have around his heart.

 But she does not believe that he loves her; he can see it in her eyes. Scotland has always been an honest woman, lying does not come as naturally to her as it does to France or her brother England, both of whom have become adept at manipulating others over the centuries for their own gain.

 Still Scotland is no fool. She is old, older than England and ancient enough to have watched as Rome crumbled- she has not survived so long by being stupid or gullible.

He knows that she loves him, has always loved him and it hurts to know that despite this she can’t bring herself to trust him. He can’t blame her. Scotland after all has witnessed France trick countless others with only honeyed words and his silver tongue. 

“What do you want France?” Scotland askes tensely and for once France has no idea what to say.  They had been friends once, she had fought for him, defied her King for him but now he can’t think of the words to convince her.

Scotland watches him impatiently for a moment then sighs heavily, “England’s waiting, and I’ll need to get going before he comes looking for me”. Her skirts rustle as she stands up and France panics, if she leaves it could be decades before they meet again.

“I want for you to trust me again” he blurts out, and Scotland stops dead on her way to the door. Her shoulders are stiff and there was very little he wouldn’t do to catch just a glimpse of her face.

“You want me to trust you?” her words sound rather flat and France frowns, opens his mouth to answer but she cuts him off.

“The last time I truly trusted you, you tried to make me your puppet!” she hisses “that sort of thing isn’t easy to forget!”

Which is true but that does not make it any easier to hear.

“Then what do I need to do?” he asks and it must be the barely hidden desperation in his voice that causes Scotland to wheel about and actually look at him.  “What?”

“I want to know what it will take to earn your trust”

Scotland just stares at him for a moment in stunned silence, before letting out a laugh that’s more akin to a bark. The harsh sound shocks France and he jumps slightly. “You actually think…” she must have noticed his expression because her face drains of any colour “wait a moment you’re actually serious, aren’t you?”

He nods and Scotland curses, running her fingers through her hair, managing to drag it out of whatever hairstyle it was originally in. It’s a sign of her agitation; it always has been, even when she cut her hair short so it would fit under her helm.

A single red curl has fallen against her cheek and he aches to brush it out of her face but instead he just watches as Scotland sweeps it impatiently out of her eyes and looks at him searchingly.

“Ecosse?”

“I… don’t know” she admits quietly looking away from him “you’ll have to work for it”, which is better than he was expecting, and far more than he deserves if he was completely honest with himself.

He looks up to meet her eyes, they are a fae green, darker and wilder than those of her brothers and it has always seemed to him that they have the ability to see right through him.

“I can live with that” he assures her and Scotland’s brief half-smile makes his heart feel far lighter.

France remembers when they were younger, how he had loved to draw out one of Scotland’s rare but beautiful smiles. It had seemed like an achievement, something only he could do and he wonders when politics and power had become more important.

Scotland walks over to the window, looking out onto the bleak, grey London skyline and makes an attempt at pulling her hair back into some form of order. “What brought this on?” she asks suddenly “after all this time why now?” It’s a good question, but Scotland has always been a clever woman, especially when she relied on her head and not her heart.   

It’s a question that is also difficult to answer “I don’t know…” France fiddles with his expensive clothes as he tries to think of a way to explain. But England’s language has always been cumbersome to him, harsh and unwieldy compared to his own and answering becomes a difficult task, which is made no easier by Scotland’s dark eyes on him and the knowledge that his answer could very well destroy his chance before it had even begun.

“I realised I was a fool” he answered eventually; “the world will always be changing, tomorrow we could be at war, the day after at peace” France glances up through pale lashes. Scotland is listening intently; the light in the room casting her face into shadow so she appears as mysterious as one of her own fae.

France leans back in his chair as he continues “we may be nations and thus bound to the will of our people but at least our hearts are our own” he sighs and raises his head to look Scotland in the eye “and as for me coming here I would be a poor country of love if I didn’t act on in when I found it, _non_?”

Scotland is silent for a long moment, a slight blush colouring her cheeks and France finds himself fiddling with his cuffs again. “Aye, I guess you would” she hums, coming to stand in front of him “forgive me for being so wary, but I knew you before and…”

“I was young” France interrupts tiredly “and a fool as I have already said. What more must I say?”

Scotland looks away “it seems the last I knew you had half the world in your bed” and he does not miss the sheer amount of bitterness that creeps into her words “and I don’t want to be yet another one of your _conquests_ ” she spits out the last word “to be abandoned when you get bored”.

The idea of getting bored of this brilliant, brave and utterly unpredictable woman seems impossible to him and he tells her so. It is a mistake. Scotland lets out an unladylike snort “is that what you said to all the others too? France I am not an _idiot”_.

She is rigid as stone and just as unreachable again and France curses himself for his clumsy words. “I have never thought that” he offers and it is the truth for all the good it will do but Scotland still does not turn back to him as she sceptically replies “really?”

Frances heart clenches then, certain that it he has failed, Scotland will remain on her rainy islands and nothing will change.

“When did you realise all this then? When did it change?” she asks suddenly and suddenly he has some hope again.

He stays silent as he thinks on her question, trying to pinpoint just _when_.

Frances face pales as the answer comes to him and for a moment he is almost overcome, certain he can smell the overpowering iron tang of blood and hear _Madame Guillotine_ as she gleefully claims another helpless victim, all complete with the roaring of the crowd. He all too clearly remembers the all-consuming madness and being held under that damned blade himself. France can feel the bile rising in his throat at the memory.

He can’t explain that it was _after_ the brutal madness of the revolution had worn away, after Waterloo where Scotland herself had run him through that his revelation had taken place. With green eyes glittering in triumph and a smirk far too close to that of her brothers for comfort Scotland had looked every inch the victorious nation but even then he could not hate her.

After all she was an old friend, a sister in arms, ally and he loved her, she would not always remain his enemy and someday they may even fight side by side again.

It was that moment that forced him to realise that life for him and every one of his kind including Scotland would always be one of shifting alliances and doing what they believed was necessary for their children.

But even then why should they not take something for themselves? Why should they be forced to face their long and difficult existence alone? 

His expression must have told her all she needs to know, as there is understanding in her eyes when she drags him back to himself with a sharp call of his name and a gentle shake. It’s unsurprising really that Scotland can read him so well; she has always known him best.

“Alright” Scotland says, her expression guarded “I’ll give you a chance but…”

Suddenly a loud bang shatters the tension in the room and both nations jump violently. “Scotland where the fuck are you?!” came the unwelcome and very English roar from somewhere beneath them.

“Shit” Scotland hisses looking rather harried “look I need to go, but you’ll have your chance. I promise.” Her eyes bore into him for a long moment before she snaps “just don’t fuck it up this time” then she’s gone in a swirl of skirts and France is left alone with his thoughts.  He can hear the muted yelling which signals Scotland and England’s meeting downstairs and a slight smile crossed his face even as the door slams behind them.

She may not have leapt straight into his arms but he had been given a chance, a chance to restore Scotland’s trust in him and make amends for some of his past mistakes.

It was a good start.


	2. The Great War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WW1 is a trying time for everyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a pretty angsty chapter. 
> 
> It took a year because I really wasn't sure about it and to be quite honest I'm still not sure about it. But this is mostly about the war and though it has a few hints of something softer its still not pleasant. WW1 wasn't nice at all and I hope I showed that.
> 
> Also as this has taken a year to write I hope I haven't completely fudged the idea of my own fic and you lot still enjoy it!

But just a few, short years after that day in London the world goes mad.

Trenches cut red ribbons across Frances back and it seems everywhere he looks he sees more suffering, more _death_. The awful misery seeps in through his skin till he fancies that his heart itself is soaked in it.

His world narrows down to little more than death and mud but it is a routine of sort. Though one that he wouldn’t wish on his own worst enemy- _England is here too though, his uniform dark with mud and blood and green eyes dull with exhaustion_.

France does not raise his head to see if there is a clear blue sky above the acid smoke, he is wary now knowing as he did that Germany’s snipers are attracted his golden hair like a flock of sombre dressed magpies.

Germany intends to bleed him dry but France fights like a trapped beast, he is old and an empire still, no impudent _child_ will bring him down. Not now. Not ever.  Even as blood trails across his skin and infection blossoms in his bones France does not allow himself to rest.

If his hands shake slightly and his nightmares are awful dark things he wakes up screaming from no-one mentions it. Few of them are faring any better.

They have all fought wars before this, battles fought over land and God but this? This is the  _Great_ War and  _if_  they survive it then the world will be a different place.

Only occasionally does he spot his allies, their shoulders slumped wearily and faces pale under the dark smears of mud. They are suffering too, dragged into this awful war like so many dominoes falling.  

He can never quite manage to banish the memory of finding their broken bodies, downed from the deadly fire of the machine guns – _how many times now has he re-lived that nightmare? He can’t tell_. But France still feels his gut clench when he recalls watching as Scotland is brought back on a stretcher blinded and screaming from the pain of the gas.

_He remembers that too well. Keeling on the hard floor with her brothers trying to soothe burned skin and calm Scotland’s terrified panic. She has always been scared of being helpless and France can still feel the way her hand curled into his in those dark hours as she healed._

Just as he knows they still see him ripped apart by shrapnel and shot down by the German guns. Or, as he remembers through a haze of pain, England and Scotland racing to detangle him from the thorns of the barbed wire before any German sniper caught them.

_Trapped and in agony he howls like a wolf caught in a trap while they rip the wire from his bones. As his body knits itself back together he finds himself wrapped in a blanket with his head resting in Scotland’s lap, her fingers curling through his hair and her voice in his ears as he fought through the pain._

They sit together when they have a moment, shoulder to shoulder but they do not speak. They do not need words. Not here. Not now. 

France pulls off his gloves and carefully takes her hand in his, wrapping his long fingers with hers and attempting a smile at her surprise. Scotland’s hands are cold and callused in his but she does not pull away. His own hands are much the same, worn down and scarred, though nowadays they have developed a tremor that has little to do with the cold. 

Sometimes Scotland sings quietly, arms wrapped tightly about herself while looking blankly at the muddy wall of the trench. Her hoarse voice is too tired and raw for true beauty but it echoes somewhere in his heart. A few kilted soldiers raise their weary heads, it’s a lament one man whispers to another- his accent speaking of distant green isles and the sea- for all those lost children who have died so very far from home. 

For Scotland is bleeding out too, the laments of mothers from the most remote of her isles to the narrow winding streets of Edinburgh wail through her veins and she grows quieter and paler as time drags on and the bodies pile up in his ruined fields. 

Singing is a comfort that France does not have, his own voice is almost gone and what he has lies heavy in his throat, crushed under the heavy taste of death.  He thinks of their agreement, made what seems like centuries ago in a different world but in reality only a scant few years and across the channel away. He can’t tell if Scotland truly trusts him yet but she rests her head on his shoulder when they sit together and he alone is allowed to see the rare moments when she drops her mask.

It gives him hope. 

There are other far more beautiful things than pain in this world; so France believes, so he has _always_ believed even through the suffering and death of centuries.

But their rare moments of peace are fragile, easily broken by a rough shout or the distant rattle of gunfire and they never last long enough.

Scotland slips her hand from his and gets up slowly, her stance exhausted and her face haggard. But once she pulls herself together with the sheer power of her stubborn pride alone she is Scotland the Brave again and her sons follow her without question into the very face of death.

Her grief when they do not all return is forced down, pressed into the depths of an ancient heart which has already seen so such pain. But even she can only take so much and under the proud, defiant mask all Scotland wants to do is go home to her mountains and depthless lochs to grieve.

France meanwhile drags himself painfully to his feet, stubbing out his cigarette and sending a blue-eyed vicious glare in Germany’s general direction. He barks out orders which his men wearily follow and when he goes over the top he spares a prayer for those who never make it back. He wants this to be over, he needs to rest without the constant gunfire and death.  He wants _peace_.

Scotland and France never bother to say goodbye. They will see each other again.

Despite this France reaches forwards, he thinks about cupping her face, touching her grubby cheeks and cracked lips but instead he merely fixes her collar and wishes her luck.  Scotland offers him a weary half smile and with a quick glance around she steps up on her toes to kiss his cheek.

“ _Merci_ ” she says and there is something France cannot identify in her eyes as she looks at him - _green eyes like the grass and fields that the trenches replaced._ Scotland steps back, shoulders her rifle and he watches as she walks away back to the fighting without a backwards glance.

The war quickly fills the space she leaves behind her.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone wonders Scotland singing is inspired by this- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6qWWgntTdO0.


End file.
